


Vigilance and Idiocy

by nxghtwxng



Series: Navigating Life [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, Humor, M/M, damian's frat boy friends are back, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxghtwxng/pseuds/nxghtwxng
Summary: “We need to see what’s behind that door.”Jon nods. “Agreed, but will we be able to get back there without anyone noticing?”“We’ll be fine,” Damian assures, starting across the room and pulling Jon along with him. “We blend in with the crowd. Continue to do so, and no one should notice—”“Oh, no fucking way! It’s Damian and Jon!”Or: Damian and Jon go undercover to a college bar and run into Nick and Danny.A sequel toAll Yours.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Series: Navigating Life [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845865
Comments: 42
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all asked for more Nick and Danny, and I live to serve.

“Uh, Dames? We’ve got a problem.”

“No names in the field, Superboy,” Damian chides absentmindedly as he reviews his case files. 

_“Robin,”_ Jon amends. “We’ve got a problem. I can’t see through the walls.”

“Look harder.”

“Look hard—? It doesn’t _work_ like that,” Jon insists, voice straining with exasperation. “I think the walls are lined with lead.”

At that, Damian looks up from his case notes.

He and Jon are in downtown Metropolis, perched on the edge of a rooftop, watching the bar across the street. There’s been a recent spike in drug-related hospitalizations in Metropolis, with Metropolis University students at the epicenter. Local authorities have turned their backs on the situation, attributing the incidents to college students being dumb and not knowing their limits.

But Jon and Damian suspect foul play. Jon knows a handful of the victims and insists that they’re hardly the types to pop pills in the back of a bar. They opened an investigation, and it hadn’t taken them long to realize that on the nights of their attacks, every victim had been at the same bar at the same times. Jon asked around the Met U campus and found that witnesses recalled seeing a man with short cropped hair and neck tattoos talking with the victims— with _his_ victims.

So, with the location of the attacks all but confirmed and a witness description of their suspect, Damian and Jon had planned to spend their night staking out the bar in hopes that the bastard would show. 

The lead walls change things, though.

“Change of plans,” Damian says. “We need to get inside.” He thumbs through his case notes until he finds the blueprints to the bar that he had hacked and downloaded in preparation for the stakeout. Jon can make fun of his “Bat paranoia” all he wants. Preparedness is a prerequisite for victory, and Damian isn’t in the business of losing. 

“The vents can act as our point of access,” he tells Jon, head bent over the blueprints. “Once we’re inside, proceed with caution and treat this as a covert mission. Do not engage unless a civilian is in immediate danger, and stick to the shadows until we identify our suspect and gather sufficient evidence against him. Understood?” He lifts his head to find Jon staring at him, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looks far too amused with Damian’s instruction. 

“Or...” Jon says slowly. “We ditch our costumes for civvies and walk in through the front entrance.”

“Uniforms. Not costumes,” Damian protests. “Not that a _sweatshirt_ qualifies as either.”

“You love the sweatshirt,” Jon teases. Damian raises an unimpressed eyebrow in return. There are countless reasons why he loves Jon, but an old sweatshirt that Jon refuses to retire is not one of them. 

“But the point is,” Jon continues, “two college students hanging out at a college bar will be a lot less conspicuous than Robin and Superboy crashing through the windows.”

“There is no _crashing through windows_ during a _covert mission.”_

Jon ignores his commentary. “So? Should I fly back to my apartment and grab our civvies?”

Damian peers across the street at the lead-lined bar, already filled with undergraduates eager to celebrate the weekend. It’s a quarter past eight. Their intel suggests their culprit strikes around nine.

Damian sighs. “Fine,” he relents. “But remember, Superboy, this is an undercover mission. We are here to _work._ That means there will be no drinking, no socializing, and no drawing attention to ourselves. We keep a low profile.”

Keeping a low profile turns out to be easier said than done.

Damian steps through the door of the bar, dressed in his civilian clothes, but the contents of his utility belt tucked neatly into the interior pockets of his jacket. He lingers in the threshold, Jon less than a step behind him, as they take in their surroundings.

The barroom counter sits at the front of the room, a scarce few paces from the entrance. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with high cheekbones and smile lines, doesn’t match witness descriptions in the slightest.

The rest of the room is littered with highrise tables, their tops crowded with empty shot glasses and half-eaten baskets of greasy bar foods. It’s busiest in the back of the room, where patrons have flocked around a dartboard and a pool table, laughing and drinking through game after game. 

Across from the pool table is a door with an _Employees Only_ sign posted to the front. A storeroom of some sorts, or perhaps even a breakroom. Either way, if this bar is the right bar, then chances are high that their culprit is using that room to house illicit materials.

“Jon, what’s behind that door in the back?” Damian asks.

Jon follows his gaze to the back of the bar and squints, looking more like he’s concentrating than actually straining his eyes— the telltale signs of his x-ray vision. 

A moment later, Jon sighs. “I don’t know. It must be lined with lead.”

“I’m sensing a theme here,” Damian mutters as a new wave of patrons enters the bar, shoving past where Damian and Jon are still lingering in the doorway. Jon slips his hand into Damian’s and tugs him out from the entrance. When he doesn’t release Damian’s hand, Damian tugs it from his grasp. “We’re working,” he chides.

Back when he and Jon had first started dating, Damian had presented Jon with a strict list of rules regarding their interactions in the field. There was to be no flirting, no kissing, and no inessential touching— hand holding included. Nothing that could indicate that they were romantically involved. He and Jon have been together for just under a year now, and Jon has broken each of Damian’s rules at _least_ ten times over. (Whether Damian has broken any of his own rules is irrelevant.)

“We’re not even wearing our capes,” Jon complains, once again reaching for Damian’s hand. “Think of it as maintaining cover.” 

Damian makes a show of rolling his eyes, but nonetheless allows Jon to take his hand. He then returns his gaze to the back of the barroom. “We need to see what’s behind that door.”

Jon nods. “Agreed, but will we be able to get back there without anyone noticing?”

Damian spares a look at the bartender, who now has her hands full with a group of drunk teenage girls and their fake IDs. “We’ll be fine,” he assures, starting across the room and pulling Jon along with him. “We blend in with the crowd. Continue to do so, and no one should notice—”

“Oh, no fucking way! It’s Damian and Jon!”

Damian and Jon screech to halt and turn to see Nick Abrams waving excitedly at them. Nick, a Met U frat boy who, to everyone’s complete befuddlement— Damian’s included— has somehow become one of Damian’s closest civilian friends, shoves his way through the crowd surrounding the pool table. 

“My bros!” he shouts, squirming in between Jon and Damian so that he can sling an arm around each of their shoulders. “I can’t believe it! Damian’s _socializing._ How the fuck did you manage that one, Jonny?”

Jon catches Damian’s eye, and Damian resists the urge to groan. Jon is a terrible liar. He reads like a book when he’s nervous, and right now, there is a clear look of panic written across his face. 

“Jon is quite persistent,” Damian interjects, sending a pointed look in Jon’s direction. “He insisted that I accompany him.”

“What the heck, dude? I’m persistent too!” Nick cries. “I’ve been trying to get you to come out with Danny and I for _months.”_

“Jon is more persuasive.”

“Persuasive? I think you mean Jon puts your dick in his mouth, and I don’t.”

“Jesus, Nick,” says Danny Sanchez— another frat boy who, by some fluke, has _also_ become a friend of Damian’s— saving Damian from having to respond to, well, _that._ “Sorry, guys, he’s pretty far gone,” he adds and unhooks Nick’s arms from around Jon and Damian’s shoulders.

“Already?” Jon asks. “It’s not even nine.”

Danny shrugs. “He’s been sober for like a month, prepping for some big poli sci midterm. But now that the test is over, it looks like he’s back to blacking out the moment we set foot in the bar.”

“Fuck you, man,” Nick says. “I’m not blacked. I’m _tipsy.”_

Danny snorts. “Hate to break it to you, bro, but you’re fucking drunk.”

“I concur,” Damian says, nose wrinkling with poorly concealed judgement.

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Nick says, though his grin negates any acerbity in his words. “I’m gonna go grab another beer. Damian, Jon, you guys want one?”

“Oh, well, actually—” Jon starts. 

Damian silences him with a squeeze to his hand with enough pressure to be uncomfortable. “Sure,” he interrupts, sending a pointed look in Jon’s direction.

Their objective was to get inside the backroom undetected. That’s not going to happen now that Nick and Danny have spotted them. Their best best is to maintain cover, allow Nick to purchase them beers that they won’t actually drink, and keep a careful eye on anyone who moves in or out of the backroom. 

Jon, it seems, cottons on to Damian’s plan, eyes flitting to the door of the backroom not ten feet away. He squeezes Damian’s hand once in reply. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he tells Nick. “Thanks.”

Hours pass, with Jon and Damian sipping at their beers with barely enough frequency to maintain their cover. “Dudes, it’s been, like, two hours, and you’re still on your first drink,” Nick remarks. He sounds perplexed, and eyes the now warm beer in Damian and Jon’s glasses with something bordering on suspicion.

But then Danny says, “We should order some sliders,” and Nick’s attention is easily diverted.

“No way, dude. If we’re getting food, we’re getting nachos.”

Nick and Danny begin to squabble because _Bro, sliders are only four bucks_ but _Nachos are only, like, two bucks more, and they’re so fucking worth it._

With Nick and Danny preoccupied, Jon ducks his head closer to Damian’s and whispers, “It’s almost ten-thirty, and no one come in or out of the backroom. And I’ve been scanning the room all night. I haven’t seen anyone matching our witness description.” He pauses to sigh, and his breath tickles the side of Damian’s cheek. “Our intel said he strikes around nine. If something was going to happen…” 

“It would have happened by now,” Damian finishes. Then, louder, he adds, “Will you both shut up already? Here.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and thrusts his credit card towards Nick and Danny. “Order whatever you want, I don’t care.”

“You sure, dude?” Danny asks, reaching out to take the card with a hesitant hand.

Damian rolls his eyes. “I could buy this entire _establishment_ if I so desired,” he scoffs. “I’m sure.”

“He’s Bruce Wayne’s kid, Danny. He’s fucking rich,” Nick says, snatching the card from between Danny’s fingers. “Now let’s go get us some free food.”

Damian watches as Nick and Danny push themselves up from their table and begin to shove their way through the crowd and up to the front of the room. Once they’re out of ear-shot, Damian says, “We had no concrete evidence that he would strike tonight.”

“I know,” Jon admits quietly. “But if he’s not here, he’s _somewhere._ For all we know he could be at another bar, with another victim.”

Jon sounds crestfallen. He’s always held himself to impossibly high standards— a byproduct of having Superman for a father, Damian presumes. The slightest misstep, and Jon believes he’s failed. 

Jon is far from a failure, though. Damian knows failure. Failure is the disappointment in Bruce’s eyes when Damian had bloodied the Robin uniform, imbuing the mantle with death. Failure is not a bootless undercover mission. He and Jon will return to their investigation. They’ll re-examine their intel, pour over the case reports and witness statements. They’ll catch the bastard that they’re after, and then Jon’s eyes will shine with triumph and victory, rather than worry and apprehension. 

“Jonathan,” Damian sighs. Jon’s fingers wring the denim of his jeans, and Damian places his palm over the back of Jon’s hand, coaxing him into relaxing his grip. “We can’t save them all. And you’ll drive yourself mad trying to prove otherwise.”

“I know, I know.” Jon releases the twisted denim and instead laces his fingers through Damian’s. Damian lets him, without protest. They’re no longer working. “But, D, what about the lead walls?”

“The lead warrants investigation,” Damian agrees. “We should come back after closing and have another look around.”

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow instead.”

“What?” Damian asks, taken aback. It’s not like Jon to want to postpone a mission without good reason. Especially when the mission is connected to a case that he’s so close to. 

But then Damian follows Jon’s gaze and sees Nick and Danny once again shoving through the crowd, this time to return to their table. It seems they’ve taken a few liberties with Damian’s credit card, balancing baskets of fried food and a round of honest to God tequila shots.

“I guess Nick finally decided that one beer over two hours isn’t good enough,” Jon says. “At least we’re off the clock now.”

“I am not drinking that,” Damian scoffs, and he tells Nick as much when he shoves a shot glass under Damian’s nose.

“Pussy,” Nick says.

“Eloquent,” Damian returns with a roll of his eyes. He pushes the shot glass out of his face. “Jon and I should go anyways.” 

“Come on, Damian. Loosen up,” Nick says. “It’s a Saturday night! Who cares if you get a little drunk?”

 _“I_ do not get _drunk,”_ Damian insists, nose wrinkling in disdain.

Nick laughs, long and loud, like Damian has just told a hysterical joke. “You were drunk the night I met you!” he cries with an accusatory finger pointed at Damian. 

“Those were…” Damian’s eyes flit to Jon. “Extenuating circumstances.”

“Oh, so you only drink when you’re pissed at your boyfriend? Not when your good buddy Nick wants to have some fun with his homies? Whatever happened to bros before hoes, Damian? Whatever happened to the sanctum of brotherhood? Whatever hap—”

 _“Fine,”_ Damian interrupts. “One shot, and then Jon and I are leaving.”

But seven shots later and Damian and Jon are still at the damn bar. Peer pressure, it appears, is a mistress that even Damian Al Ghul Wayne, son of the Batman and heir to the League of Assassins, bows to every now and then. That, and Jon seems to be having a good time with Danny, and Damian much prefers Jon’s crooked, easy-going grin to his earlier look of defeat.

“You know what sucks?” Nick says. He leans forward onto his elbows. “I haven’t gotten laid in _months.”_

Jon snorts, catches Damian’s eye from across the table, and smiles with obvious amusement. Damian rolls his eyes.

“Sucks for you,” Danny deadpans, then leans back and takes another sip of his beer. Jon snorts again.

“Fuck you, Danny. And you too, Jon,” Nick says without any real heat. He huffs and reaches for his beer. “When was the last time _you guys_ had sex, huh?”

“Last week,” Danny says at the same time that Jon says, “Last night.”

“Jonathan,” Damian chides, but Jon’s only response is to wrap an arm over Damian’s shoulders. Alcohol has always prompted Jon to overshare. Really, Damian is amazed that Jon has yet to let his secret identity slip.

“Wait. What the fuck? Am I the only one here not having sex?” Nick asks, looking and sounding _far_ more frantic than the situation warrants. “Damian? When was the last time you got laid?”

“First of all, that’s none of your business,” Damian replies. “But, Nicholas. Really?”

Nick stares at Damian for a moment, then blinks slowly. Then he looks at Jon, at the arm that Jon has wrapped around Damian’s shoulders, and then back at Damian. “Oh.” He blinks again. “Right.”

Nick’s shoulders hunch, and he slumps low in his seat. “I’m gonna be single forever,” he laments and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m gonna die _alone._ I’m gonna die so alone that no one will even come to my _funeral.”_

“Hey, man, I’ll come to your funeral,” Danny offers.

“Gee, thanks, Danny. That’s a real consolation,” Nick huffs, then promptly drops his head onto the table, forehead cushioned by his folded arms. Danny only shrugs, as if to say, _Well, I tried._

Damian clicks his tongue, then leans forward to push Nick up by the shoulder. “Stop with your whining, Abrams,” he says. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Easy for you to say, Wayne,” Nick returns, though he does lift his head from the table. “You’re not single and dying a slow, painful, lonely death.”

If Nick only knew that Damian had, in fact, died a slow and painful death years prior. And it had been far less pleasant than _being single_ ever had been.

“You’re not _dying,”_ Damian insists.

Nick shakes his head, a forlorn look in his eyes. “We’re all slowly dying. Little by little. Everyday we inch closer to death,” he says with too much sincerity. “And I’ll be living a sad, lonely life until death finally claims me.”

“Oh my God,” Damian mumbles and drags a hand across his face. “Alright, Abrams, I’m only saying this once, so listen closely. You’re attractive.” Damian feels Jon stiffen next to him. “You’re smart. Some may even say that your juvenile witticisms qualify as humorous. You _will_ find someone, and could do so easily if you pulled your head out of your ass and quit wasting your time with sorority girls and floozies that you meet at tawdry bars.”

“Floozies?” Danny asks.

Nick blinks and stares at Damian for a moment. He looks contemplative as he considers Damian’s words. He blinks once more, and Damian sees the corner of his mouth twitch, like it wants to curl into a smile. “Aw, Damian,” he coos. “You think I’m attractive?”

“Yeah, you think Nick’s attractive?” Jon echoes.

“Shut up, Kent,” Damian clips. “You called him _cute_ when you first met him.”

Jon flushes and attempts to stammer out an excuse as Nick says, “So, what I’m hearing is that you _both_ have a crush on me.” 

Jon continues to stammer, and Damian tuts, “That is not at all what I said.”

“I dunno, it’s what I heard,” Nick retorts. “You basically just confessed your love to me.”

Jon huffs, and Damian resists the urge to roll his eyes as Jon shifts so that the arm he has thrown over Damian’s shoulders is less subtle and more possessive. Jon is admittedly a bit hot-headed, and has been since he and Damian were children. While he has become less impetuous over the years, when Nicholas Abrams is present, Jon returns to his old ways, and is far more rash and far less rational. 

Jealousy, in other words, is a vice that Jon is not exempt from, _especially_ when it comes to Damian’s friendship with Nick. Damian estimates another two minutes, maximum, before Jon places either a hand on his knee or a kiss on his cheek— Jon becomes… _handsy_ when he’s jealous.

“Keep dreaming, Abrams,” Damian drawls.

“Oh, I will,” Nick returns, and sends a wink in Damian’s direction.

And there’s the hand on Damian’s knee. Two minutes, it seems, was an overestimation.

Danny snorts. “Nicholas,” he says. “Quit flirting with Damian. You’re making Jon jealous.”

“I’m not jealous of Nick,” Jon mutters. Damian and Danny both raise an unimpressed brow, and Jon cries, “What? I’m not!”

“Chill, Jonny. I’m not gonna steal your boyfriend,” Nick interjects. “Besides, I’m like ninety-eight percent sure that I’m straight.”

“Ninety-eight?” Danny echoes. “What’s that other two percent?”

Without missing a beat, Nick bats his eyelashes at Damian with all the subtlety of a love-struck middle schooler. “Damian’s eyes,” he breathes. Danny chokes on his beer, and even Damian allows himself an amused snort as Jon huffs and pulls him closer.

“Man, you _sure_ you’re not gay?” Danny asks. 

“I mean are any of us ever really _sure_ of _anything?”_ Nick returns.

“Are you avoiding the question? Is that what you’re doing here?”

“Am I? Is that what I’m doing?”

“I dunno, dude. _Is_ that what you’re—”

“Damian!” Jon shouts, and the rest of the table turn their heads towards him with curious expressions etched across their faces.

Jon blinks, then fidgets in his chair. He looks uncomfortable, like he hadn’t expected his own outburst. In fact, with his eyes wide and brows raised, he looks stricken. Alarmed.

“Sorry, I think I, uh, just saw Kathy and Maya?” he says, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Dames? Should we _go say hello?”_

Jon’s words are pointed and insistent, but they make no sense. Kathy is off-world, and will be for the rest of the month, and Maya left for an international mission in Europe not two days ago. And Jon _knows this._ Jon knows that he couldn’t have seen Kathy or Maya—

But he could have seen their suspect.

A man with short cropped hair and tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt is creeping out from the backroom. 

Jon must have seen him go in.

Damian stands from the table. “Yes, of course. Nicholas, Daniel, we’ll be back in a minute,” he says evenly, then steps away from the table and into the crowd. Jon scrambles after him, leaving Nick and Danny to raise skeptical brows at one another.

“Do you have eyes on him?” Damian asks as soon as he and Jon are out of earshot of Danny and Nick. 

Jon squints, the movement barely noticeable, but enough that Damian recognizes that he’s using his x-ray vision. He nods. “He ducked into the kitchen, but the door to the kitchen is lead-free. I can see him fine.”

“Does he have the drugs with him?”

“No drugs,” Jon reports. “But he has _a lot_ of cash.”

“How much cash?”

“A suspicious amount. Enough that even your dad would think it’s too much pocket change.”

Bruce one gave a thirteen-year-old Damian and eleven-year-old Jon five-hundred dollars when Damian had requested cash for an afternoon at the arcade. Their suspect must have _thousands_ in his pockets.

Damian narrows his own eyes at the kitchen door, as if he too would develop x-ray vision if he only stared hard enough. “He’s either selling his product, and the cash is his profit, or he’s run out of product and is about to buy more.”

“But either way, we can’t do anything,” Jon says. “Even if we were wearing our capes, carrying around too much cash isn’t a crime.”

“But possession of a controlled substance is,” Damian replies. “We need to return to our earlier plan. Let’s see what’s in the backroom.” He turns on his heel, and without preamble, heads towards the back of the bar.

Jon hastens to his side. “You want to investigate? Right now? You sure that’s a good idea?”

Damian raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t slow his pace. “Why would it not be?”

Jon returns his raised brow. “Babe, you can’t even walk in a straight line right now.”

“Yes, I can,” Damian says, sounding petulant even to his own ears. He pointedly quickens his steps.

“If you think that this is walking in a straight line, you’re even drunker than I thought.”

Damian huffs as they reach the door to the backroom. “I’m not drunk,” he insists. He tries the knob to the backroom, and when the door doesn’t open, extracts his lock picking kit from his jacket pocket. “Keep watch,” he tells Jon.

Damian had learned to pick locks when he was seven years old. Since then, it has never once taken him longer than a single minute to pick a lock. His record time is twelve seconds. 

It takes him four minutes and a handful of Arabic curses to pick the backroom’s basic knob lock.

When Damian finally opens the door, Jon smirks. “Not drunk, huh?”

“Shut. Up.”

They slip into the backroom, and Damian catches the door just before it latches. He leaves is cracked, a mere sliver of the barroom outside visible— just enough that Jon will be able to see into the rest of the bar and keep an eye on their suspect from inside the lead-lined room.

But the lead-lined room turns out to be… a disappointment. It’s nothing more than a typical storeroom, cramped and dimly lit, packed tight with boxes of unopened liquor and cleaning supplies crowded in the corner. 

Damian starts to wonder if they’d been wrong, if the storeroom is, in fact, _just_ a storeroom—

“There’s a lead-lined safe hidden behind the top row of boxes,” Jon says. 

The corner of Damian’s lips curl into a smirk. Their suspect will be in Metropolis PD custody by the end of the night. 

“I love your x-ray vision,” he mumbles as Jon clears the final box away from the wall, revealing the charcoal colored safe.

Jon looks over his shoulder with a sly smile, eyes glinting. “Yeah, so do I.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Save it, Superboy. We’re working. Get the safe open.”

“Hey, you don’t get to call _me_ unprofessional when _you’re_ the one who’s drunk,” Jon protests, though he does place an ear to the safe and twist the knob, using his super-hearing to find the correct combination. 

“For the last time, I’m _not drunk,”_ Damian grouses.

“Keep telling yourself that, D.”

“Will you be quiet and open the—” The door to the safe swings open. Jon looks entirely too satisfied with the timing. Damian ignores him, and instead steps forward to peer into the safe.

The walls of the safe are lined with stacks of cash— at least a hundred thousand. In the center of the safe are two plastic bags, one filled with pills, the other with powder. 

Damian pulls his wrist-computer from his pocket, thankful that he had had the foresight to disconnect the computer from his gauntlet before ditching his Robin uniform. He fumbles a sample of the powder from its plastic bag, then scans it with the wrist-computer.

When the scan is complete, the results appear on the computer’s screen. Damian blinks once, twice to focus his eyes on the text. He is still insistent that he is _not drunk,_ but he may not be _entirely_ sober— hence why the fine print on his wrist computer is a bit difficult to decipher.

“It looks like the base composition of this drug is Ecstasy, but it’s been genetically altered to be more dangerous,” Damian reports. “Theoretically, this could cause symptoms similar to what we’ve seen in the recent victims.”

“So this is our guy, then?” Jon asks, hopeful.

“Chances are high that he is our perpetrator,” Damian confirms. “Where is he now?”

Jon looks through the crack in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he taps into his telescopic vision. “He’s not in the kitchen anymore… Hold on…” Jon pauses as he searches the room. “He’s…” His shoulder stiffen, and his eyes go wide with panic. _“Shit,_ D. He’s walking back here.”

“Stay calm,” Damian orders. He shoves his wrist-computer back into his pocket, then pushes the door to the safe closed. “Is it possible for us to make it out of the room undetected?”

“No, he’s _about to come in,”_ Jon hisses.

Well, shit.

Damian’s mind works on overdrive trying to come up with an escape plan, but he and Jon are quite literally backed into a corner. The room is too restricted to offer anywhere to run or hide, and they don’t have their uniforms, which means they can’t _fight_ their way out of the situation. Their only option is to maintain their cover. Pretend they’re nothing more than a couple of drunk college kids.

So why would a couple of drunk college kids be in the backroom?

Damian pushes a hand against Jon’s chest, shoving him back against the wall. “Follow my lead,” he hisses, then pulls Jon down by the ears and kisses him.

Jon makes a sound of surprise, but soon enough, instinct takes over, and his hands move to Damian’s waist right as the door to the backroom flies open.

“Oh, _what the fuck?”_

Damian whips his head around and blinks in feigned surprise. He drops his hands from where they had rested on Jon’s jawline, framing his face, and lets them fall to Jon’s shoulders instead. 

Their suspect is standing in the doorway, expression somewhere between shocked and angry. He’s an _exact_ match for their witness descriptions— the cropped hair and neck tattoos, blue eyes bright enough to stand out against his pale skin, speech thick with an East Coast accent. Damian is _certain_ that this is the man that they’re after.

“The fuck are you _doing_ back here? This room is employees only!” shouts their suspect. 

Damian raises a scrutinizing brow. “Are _you_ an employee?” he asks, eyeing the suspect’s oversized flannel and tattered jeans. The other barroom employees had been wearing plain black jeans and shirts emblazoned with the name of the bar.

“I’m on the custodial staff,” he huffs. 

His shift starts after the bar closes, then. That explains why he strikes so early in the night. He finishes with his victims before he heads to work. The thought makes Damian’s stomach twist. 

“Now, how the fuck did you two get back here?”

“Uh, through the door?” Jon offers.

“The door was locked,” the suspect insists. “I locked it. I _remember_ locking it.”

“Sorry, dude, but it wasn’t locked,” Jon says, his voice impressively even. “I mean, if it had been locked, how would we have gotten in here?”

The suspect’s eyes drift past Damian and Jon to the back wall. 

The back wall with the exposed safe.

Damian curses under his breath. They had forgotten to return the boxes in front of the safe.

The suspect returns his gaze to Damian and Jon, eyes dark. He steps out from the doorway, then uses the heel of his boot to push the door shut behind him. When he speaks, his voice is low. “You two undercover cops or something?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Damian says. He removes his hands from around Jon’s shoulders, but Jon’s hands only slide up from his waist, towards his ribs. 

Damian nearly elbows him away before he realizes Jon’s intentions as he dips his hand into the interior pocket of Damian’s jacket. Damian settles his hands on Jon’s waist, effectively blocking their suspect’s view, as Jon extracts a handful of smoke pellets from Damian’s pocket. 

“Don’t play dumb,” the suspect sneers. “Who the fuck do you work for? MPD?”

“Look, man, we don’t want any trouble,” Jon says. He presses the smoke pellets into Damian’s hand. 

“You should have thought about that before you shits broke in here!” the suspect shouts, his voice steadily rising in volume. 

“We didn’t—”

“The door was _locked._ The door was _fucking locked,_ and the safe was _hidden._ Fucking _hidden_ —”

The door to the backroom flies open. “Woah! What the fuck is going on in here?” booms a familiar voice.

Nick is standing in the doorway, drunk off his ass, confusion etched over his face. He plants his hands on his hips, like a stern mother about to give her children a talking to. “What the fuck is going on?” he repeats

“None of your business,” the suspect snaps. “Get out of here. This is between me and the fags.”

And _that_ does not sit well with Nick. He steels himself, rolls back his shoulders, and straightens his back. “Oh, so you’ve got a problem with gay people, is that it?”

“Nick,” Damian interjects. He clenches his fist, rolling the smoke pellets against his palm. “We’re fine. Get out of here.”

“No way, dude. I’m not leaving you guys alone with a _homophobe.”_ He hisses the word _homophobe_ like it’s a nasty slur. Damian nearly facepalms.

“Jesus, I’m not fucking homophobic!” the suspect cries. _“These guys_ are the only gays I have a problem with.”

“Well, these guys are my _bros,”_ Nick says. He crosses the room, crowding the suspect. Jon and Damian let go of one another and sink into fighting positions, Damian ready to release the smoke pellets, and Jon ready to super-speed Damian and Nick out of the backroom, secret identities be damned.

“Well your _bros_ just got mixed up in some pretty deep shit,” the suspect leers. “You should leave before you’re in too deep, too.”

“Fuck no,” Nick says. “I don’t let _anyone_ fuck with my bros.”

And before anyone can so much as _move—_ before the suspect can make a break for it, before Damian can let the smoke pellets fly, before even _Jon_ can use his goddamn _super-speed—_ Nick punches the suspect square in the face.

The punch has enough power behind it that the suspect is flying out cold before he even hits the floor.

The room is silent.

“Holy shit,” Nick whispers. His hand is still curled into a fist, knuckles split. “I just punched that guy.”

“You just punched that guy,” Jon confirms. 

Nick stares open-mouthed at the suspect’s unconscious form. 

Damian discreetly tucks the smoke pellets back into his pockets. “You might want to get out of here,” he suggests. “That hit qualifies as battery.”

“I know that. I’m a political science major, I know what battery is,” Nick mumbles. He looks up at Damian and Jon with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I’ve never punched anyone before… I’ve never… I’m an _honors student._ I’ve never…”

He sounds utterly horror-stricken. Jon snickers, and Damian smacks him upside the head. 

“Hey!” Jon cries, and Damian promptly ignores him.

“You’re in shock, Nick,” Damian says. “Go find Danny, then the two of you head home.”

“You knocked him out, you didn’t kill him,” Jon adds. “It’ll be fine.”

Nick nods his head numbly. “Yeah… Yeah, it’ll be fine… I’m gonna… go home…”

“Good decision,” Damian deadpans. 

With a final nod, Nick ambles out from the room, and Jon promptly breaks into a fit of laughter. 

“He was so _surprised,”_ he manages between giggles. “Gosh, what would have happened if we had outed our secret IDs? I think he would have passed out from shock if I’d used my super-speed.”

“Jonathan,” Damian chides. “He’s an untrained civilian. Be nice.”

 _“You’re_ telling _me_ to be nice?” Jon asks, and Damian once again smacks him upside the head. “Ow!” Jon shouts as he bats Damian’s hand away. “Will you quit that?”

“Stop whining. I barely touched you.”

“You _hit me.”_

“You’re _invulnerable.”_ Damian returns with a huff. “We need to leave. We’ll come back in our uniforms to explain what we’ve found out to the police.”

Jon purses his lips. “Maybe we should call my dad instead. Let him handle the cops,” he says tentatively. “I don’t know how well Drunk Robin will go over with Metropolis PD.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I am _not drunk.”_ Damian crosses his arms over his chest. “I was _acting._ It’s called maintaining cover.”

“Mhm, sure,” Jon says dryly. “Not drunk. That’s why you called Nick cute.”

“I did not call Nicholas _cute.”_

“Right, sorry. You called him _attractive.”_

“Shut up, Kent.”


	2. Bonus Scene: The Next Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from my first draft.

Damian wakes up to his cell phone ringing and his head pounding. He groans, buries his face into his pillow, and makes absolutely no effort to answer the phone.

He feels the bed shift as Jon pushes himself up onto his elbows and reaches across him to silence the phone. Damian mutters something that might have been a thank you.

A gentle hand cards through Damian's hair in reply. “Good morning, sleepy head,” Jon chirps, far too awake for the early hour, and presses a kiss to Damian’s temple.

Damian groans. Jon’s stupid super-metabolism means that he’s never experienced a hangover, and Damian hates him for it.

Then Damian’s phone starts to ring anew, and Jon once again reaches for the offending device, though this time he takes the phone into his hand and looks at the screen. “Nick is calling you,” he informs Damian.

“Ignore it,” Damian grunts.

Jon does so, tossing Damian’s phone back onto the nightstand. He tugs Damian closer, and Damian easily curls against his chest, wanting nothing more than to stay in bed with Jon and sleep off his hangover.

Jon is blissfully quiet as Damian closes his eyes, feeling the steady thrum of Jon's heartbeat under his hands. Jon uses one hand to trace absentminded shapes against Damian’s arm and the other to scroll listlessly at his own phone. His touch is calming, and Damian starts to feel himself drift back off to sleep until—

“Nick just texted me.”

Damian hums noncommittally. 

“He asked if you’re still in Metropolis.”

“Tell him I went home already.”

“Too late. Already told him you’re here,” Jon says. “He wants to meet for breakfast.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” Damian mutters. “I want to sleep.”

“Apparently my dad made the news," Jon prattles. Damian's straggling hopes of returning to sleep are fleeting fast. "GBS reported on the arrest he made last night, and now Nick is freaking out about it. Said he can’t believe he punched a drug lord.”

Damian sighs into Jon’s shoulder. “He wasn’t a _drug lord,”_ he grouses.

“I think we should go to breakfast,” Jon offers.

“I don’t _want_ to go to breakfast.”

They go to breakfast.

Damian sighs into his coffee, disinterested as Nick rants and raves about the prior night’s escapades. 

“I mean, what are the odds?” he shouts, arms flailing. “I freakin’ punch this dude— knock him out cold— and then fucking _Superman_ shows up an hour later to arrest the guy?”

“Dude, should you really be out here screaming about knocking out some random dude?” Danny asks around a mouthful of pancake. “I mean, isn’t that assault?”

“Battery,” Nick corrects. “You really think the cops will care, though? Dude was bad enough that _Superman_ had to bust his ass.”

“Superman _is_ kind of a big deal,” Jon adds smugly as he reaches for his orange juice. He smiles at Damian over the rim of his glass.

“Batman is better,” Damian replies. It’s almost an instinctual response at this point.

Nick waves a dismissive hand. “You’re only saying that because you’re from Gotham. Batman is whatever, but the Supers are fucking legit.”

Jon blinks up at Nick in mild surprise. “All of them?” he asks. "Not just Superman?"

“Fuck yes, all of them,” Nick says eagerly, head bobbing. “Supergirl? Hot. The older Superboy— Supernova, or whatever he goes by now— has fucking Kardashian energy. And the other Superboy is _sick._ I’ve seen that dude fight alien armies in ripped jeans and a sweatshirt. That’s a power move.”

Jon sends a knowing smirk in Damian’s direction.

Damian pointedly ignores him. “The Bats are far more accomplished than the Supers,” he scoffs instead.

“Half the Bats are named after _birds._ I’m supposed to be impressed by a dude who chooses to call himself _Robin?”_ Nick asks. Jon snorts, and Damian kicks him underneath the table.

“Okay, okay,” Danny interjects. “Speaking as someone from Keystone, and therefore the closest thing we’re gonna get to a neutral party at a table with two Metropolis natives and a Gothamite, I will say that a few of the Bats are pretty cool.”

Damian gives Jon a self-satisfied smirk that lasts right up until Danny adds, “Like, sure, maybe Robin isn’t the coolest, but have you guys ever seen _Red_ Robin in action? That dude is hands down _sick.”_

Nick and Danny have no idea why Jon bursts out laughing or why Damian elbows him in the stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on Tumblr: [nightwingbb](https://nightwingbb.tumblr.com/)


End file.
